Teatrum Mundi
by TenTenD
Summary: The return is sometimes more difficult than the departure. But the reward is worth the effort. Or so Rhaegar Targaryen believes. Companion to "Eidola to Daimon. A History ".


i.

Even unwavering in his decision, the King cannot tear his eyes away from the sight before him. The sight of human misery is so moving that even a heart of stone cannot remain unaffected. And no one has ever accused Rhaegar of being heartless. But this dance he must do for the music is of his own making.

The insolent stare of the former Lord Lannister is a blade to his comfort and the very breath the man draws is vexing beyond any imaginable level.

He is not a cruel man, Rhaegar knows that. But while he watches Tywin Lannister's body convulse, fighting to hold onto life, the King feels satisfaction. And it scares him in that the point should be punishment of crimes. Still, what goes on is not so much justice as revenge. Rhaegar keeps his eyes on the dying man, not once moving his stare away.

At least Lyanna may be spared the sight. But that comfort is paltry when thinking that this ghost shall visit him in the late hours of the night. His jaw twitches minutely and Rhaegar hardens his glare. The gods should have struck him down themselves if they'd wanted his death to be gentles.

Nay, the King had no mercy to offer.

* * *

><p>ii.<p>

Baelor's Sept is filled to the brim. The High Septon has already ascended the steps. And every single individual is waiting with bated breath for the realm's latest hero. For this occasion even a few representatives of the peasants have been allowed entrance and they are seated beside nobles. These are people to whom the realm owes its safety, these are people to whom the King owes his crown.

They come together, the King and Queen, a pair of muted sorrow in the house of hope and joy. Rhaegar legs Lyanna gently down the isle, and she leans on him, not heavily, but enough to make her presence felt. This is no girl he has on his arm. This is a woman.

Kneeling before the sacred Star, Rhaegar stares absently at the gold gleaming in the warm light of the sun. He feels the oils sliding in his hair and the crow touching his head, a circle of gold to bind him to the throne.

It is then his duty to choose his Queen. Lyanna remains kneeling after he no longer does so. The High Septon is blessing her and he is about to crown her as well, but Rhaegar takes the circlet from his hands and slides it himself atop her unveiled head. And then her hand is in his.

"Long live the King! Long live the Queen!" rings out from all around them.

* * *

><p>iii.<p>

The fever breaks in the end, as is natural, leaving behind a weakened woman who has run out of tears to cry. Rhaegar brushes her hair back carefully, pressing his lips to her forehead. Her skin doesn't burn this time. Lyanna tries to pull away, but his arms have secured her. He can feel her reticence. It is almost like she is building a wall between them, keeping herself away from him, keeping them apart.

"Do you, mayhap, blame me?" The mere thought of it hurts. He doesn't want to be apart from her. But if she does blame him, she is right. He should have come sooner.

His wife's eyes narrow. "I blame you?" Her face betrays nothing. She'd been an open book when he left. Now he cannot even see behind her eyes. "I do not blame you." Her small hand has clenched itself into his tunic and the material grows taut with her pull. "I am merely thinking about the future."

Ah, 'tis clear enough. Rhaegar's expression grows dark. "Put that nonsense out of your mind."

"But-" she begins, no doubt led by the very best of intentions.

"I will never." And then it is decided. He feels the fight flowing out of her and Lyanna relaxes.

* * *

><p>iv.<p>

Pycelle is about as useless as water at a wedding and Rhaegar is just about ready to snap and show all these people who have crowded his wife's chambers the temper his house is famed for. It take a few impatient gestures and one or two sharp glares, but they appear to understand him, though Pycelle fumbles with the medicines a little too long.

Lyanna lies in bed, waxen and wan, her haunting eyes burning strangely. But she lives and that is what really matters. Maester Luwin is the quiet shadow that slips into the chamber, carrying with him but a small skin filled with milk of the poppy. Rhaegar simply nods at the man and returns to his seat by the window.

"There will be other children, Your Majesty," the Maester will tell him later, after Lyanna has fallen asleep. "Despite the brutality of their treatment of her, she should be able to conceive again, provided that her marital duties are postponed for the next six weeks."

He draws in a shaky breath and thanks whatever deities are listening.

It is to her bed that he takes, but it is just to hold her. There is a need in him to have her close, safely sleeping before his eyes.

* * *

><p>v.<p>

Rhaegar sees Lyanna go down and for a moment his heart stops. But then Jaime Lannister – out of all the persons in the throne room; the irony – puts himself between Lyanna and the danger of arrows and swords. Perhaps there is less of the traitorous father in the son.

Abandoning all thoughts of Jaime, Rhaegar focuses his attention of a roaring Robert Baratheon. He dodges the sword coming towards him and catches an opening, enough for the tip of lance to cut through doublet and tunic, into flesh. His enemy is incensed. Robert is a strong man, but he is relying merely on brute force, so unlike the good warrior Rhaegar knows he is.

But Robert acting foolishly is not something Rhaegar will protest to. It makes the fight easier to win. His muscles tense in anticipation, hand wrapping strongly around the lance. He raises the weapon and thrusts it downward, catching Robert by.

Arthur Dayne takes the fight from his hands. Rhaegar rushes to Lyanna's side, taking off his helm. By the time he reaches her, she is keeping company with a dead protector. Unburdening her, he kneels by her side and grips the arrow piercing her palm. Lyanna looks at him with wide eyes.

He should offer her encouraging words but all he can manage is a chocked sound somewhere between agony and happiness. And then he pulls the arrow from her skin. Her bloodied palms touch his face, cracked lips on his.

The world has stopped turning.


End file.
